A distant magic, p.27
A Distant Magic, page 27
“There is a Quaker printer and publisher in London who has produced other works that speak against slavery,” Jean said. “I believe his name is James Phillips. I should think he would be very interested in your essay.” Clarkson fell silent as he attacked another sandwich of ham and cheese, but the energy around him flared yellow, the sign of intense mental activity. After swallowing the last of his sandwich, he said, “You are both well informed about slavery. Have you lived in the Indies and seen it firsthand?”
Nikolai’s mouth twisted. “I have indeed seen slavery, but not in the Indies. I was captured by corsair pirates as a boy and I spent years as a slave. I was beaten in the galleys, whipped on caravans crossing deadly deserts, and gained my freedom by leading a slave revolt on a galley.” Clarkson stared at him. “You have experienced this great evil yourself?”
“Do you doubt me?” Smoldering with emotion, Nikolai rose and peeled off his coat and waistcoat, then turned and yanked his shirt free of his breeches to reveal an ugly, crisscrossed mass of gnarled scars on his back. “The proof is written on my body.”
Jean and Clarkson gasped. Wanting to weep, she leaned forward and traced the deepest of the scars. Nothing Nikolai had said about his slavery was as wrenching as the sight of these scars. Now she better understood why he had been so determined to revenge himself on the Macraes.
He jerked away from her touch, and she guessed that the scars spoke to him of humiliation and helplessness. He restored his garments and sat down, controlled again. “If you work against this great evil, Mr. Clarkson, I guarantee that there are many like me who will join you. I am foreign-born and could never lead such a crusade, but I believe that you might become such a leader.”
“Do you truly think so?” Clarkson asked quietly.
“I know so.” Jean caught his gaze, mustering all her sincerity. He must be persuaded by truth, not by magic. “I’m a Scot, and I have a touch of the Sight. I believe that you can truly make a difference in fighting the slave trade. Perhaps it is divine will that led my husband and me along this road today.” Divine will, or the ancestors. She wasn’t sure there was a difference.
“Perhaps... perhaps I shall do as you suggest.” Clarkson’s energy flared again, this time with resolve. “I shall pray on it.”
As Jean remembered what Adia had written about Clarkson, she knew that today they had done another good day’s work.
After their picnic had ended and Jean had sent Clarkson off to London with another sandwich wrapped in cheesecloth so that he wouldn’t starve along the way, Nikolai packed the basket into the pony cart. “I suppose we should return the cart to the livery in Ware. Then London, I think?”
Jean nodded. “Twenty years have passed since our last visit. We need to see what people are thinking, not to mention get newer clothing.”
“I’d like to drive the cart. I need the practice.”
“Feel free,” Jean said as she swung up on the passenger side. “This placid old pony is a good choice for a sailor.” He was glad to drive, and not only because he had so little experience. Learning to use the reins properly was a convenient distraction. For years he had concealed his scarred body, hating the idea that anyone would see how he’d been used. Now that Clarkson was gone, he expected Jean to say something about the scars, but mercifully, she said nothing. A man could fall in love with a woman who knew when to stay silent.
Fall in love? Where had that thought come from? Yet when he studied Jean’s delicate profile from the corner of his eye, he admitted to himself that he was at least half in love with her. Their partnership and mutual dedication to this mission was bringing them closer together than many wedded couples.
He was tempted to pull the cart over, pull the lap robe from the basket, and take her to some private place where they could become closer yet. Just thinking about that made his pulse quicken. But his damnable intuition insisted that it was not yet the right time. They were both still developing as mages, and he suspected that they would need their full abilities before their quest was completed.
He must hope that he didn’t expire of frustration first.
London was twenty years busier, noisier, and smellier. Perhaps it was a coincidence of the route, but Jean saw more blacks than on any past visit. Many were obviously poor, looking to gain a few coins by holding horses or sweeping the streets clean for more prosperous citizens. She wondered if she was seeing refugees from American slavery who had fled after the war, like Adia and her family. Adia had said that London had thousands of black residents in her time.
She and Nikolai found a clean, modest inn not far from where they had stayed before. They deliberately chose a different inn this time since it was not impossible that they might be recognized even twenty years later. But they chose to go to the same coffeehouse and bookseller as before, since the establishments were convenient and the likelihood of being recognized almost nonexistent.
Smythe’s, the bookshop, was quiet when Jean entered. She looked around with pleasure, enjoying the scents of paper and fresh ink and the brimming bookshelves. On tables at the front, new titles were stacked enticingly.
A middle-aged man approached her. She vaguely remembered him as a Smythe, the son of the old proprietor. Probably he now ran the business. “Good day, madam,” he said. “Are you looking for a particular title, or do you prefer to browse?”
Jean asked the same question she’d asked twenty years before. “Do you have books about slavery and abolition? Perhaps accounts by former slaves?”
Smythe beamed. “We have as fine a selection of such titles as any bookseller in London. In fact, I’ve set up a display.” He led her to one of the front tables, where several dozen books were stacked. “Ignatius Sancho’s Letters are extremely popular. The author was born on a slave ship in the mid-Atlantic as his parents were being transported to the Americas. Later he came to England. His story is most compelling.”
He placed a copy in Jean’s hands. “If you haven’t a copy already, you might also enjoy Phillis Wheatley’s Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. The book has been out for a dozen years, but it remains very popular. She is an American slave who showed such quickness that her mistress had her educated. She has even visited London and was much acclaimed for her intelligence and sensibility.”
Jean looked at the poems, then added the book to Sancho’s Letters. “I was looking for exactly such books. What else do you have?”
“I have tracts by the American Anthony Benezet as well as the work of our own Granville Sharp and the reverends John Wesley and James Ramsay.” He spoke like a man who had read the books in question, and agreed with the contents.
Jean looked at each book Smythe produced, then added it to her pile, trying to conceal her excitement. Twenty years earlier, there had been almost no publications about slavery or abolition. There had been an explosion of interest in the subject since then.
As Jean was paying for her purchases, Mr. Smythe said, “Do check back with us soon, madam. Any day now, we will be receiving a new book written by a female former slave. The printer said that it’s very powerful. He has received more advance subscriptions for the title than for anything else he has ever published.”
A half-grown girl emerged from the back carrying a basket of books. “Papa, you said to bring these up as soon as they arrived.”
“Just in time!” Smythe exclaimed. “Here is the volume I was speaking of, madam. My journey to Faith and Freedom by An African Princess.” He opened one of the copies and began reading it himself.
Jean opened the book and saw that it had been published by James Phillips, the Quaker printer whom she’d learned about from Adia’s notes. She flipped to the first page and stiffened with shock. “I’ll take this one, too.”
Because of the number of books she’d bought, Mr. Smythe himself carried her purchases in a basket to her inn. She thanked him, then raced upstairs. She couldn’t wait to tell Nikolai what she’d discovered.
Nikolai found the coffeehouse talk exceptionally interesting, so it was late afternoon when he returned to the inn. He went straight to Jean’s adjoining room. When he entered, he found her reading by the window.
As she glanced up, he said exuberantly, “Jean, the world has changed greatly in twenty years. Men were discussing the slave trade when I came in, and almost everyone present was against it. There was a slave ship officer who tried to say that the trade was kindly and essential, and whenever he spoke, he was heckled down. The subject is now one that average men feel passionately about.”
“I found the same thing at the bookseller’s.” Jean gestured to the stacked volumes on the table beside her. “There were a number of books and pamphlets written against the slave trade, and several accounts written by former slaves. Including this one written by An African Princess.” She handed him the volume she was reading. “Look.”
He glanced at the engraving of a handsome African woman in the front. “Good God, it’s Adia! Why didn’t she mention that she’d written a book?” A thought struck him. “Could she have lied and told us another woman’s story? She might have read this book and used the information to deceive us. But why?”
“I think Adia did write this, but not in her early years in London before she left her own time and came to us,” Jean said slowly. “She must have written the book on Santola after we left. But if so, why was it only published now?”
“Perhaps it took her thirty years to write. Or it took that long to find a publisher.” Nikolai frowned. “Or perhaps she held it back so it could be published now, when public support for abolition is growing.”
“So she is living in London right now but probably she doesn’t know about her book because in her personal time, she hasn’t written it yet. I’m sure she would have told us if she had written it before she came back in time.” Jean made a face. “Whenever I think about traveling through time, I feel a headache coming on.”
“Better not to think of it,” he advised as he paged through the book.
“From what the bookseller said, her story will sell very well. I’m sure her family will welcome the money.” Jean sighed. “No doubt Adia made arrangements for them to benefit even if she herself can never return to them.”
Nikolai gave her a quick glance, hearing her own wistful hopes. “Perhaps the ancestors will help her to return, for she is serving them well.” He glanced down at the book. “I see that she has changed some of the names, but the events are very detailed and convincing.”
“And some are horrific,” Jean said softly.
He reached the description of Adia’s rape when she was little more than a child. There were few details, but emotion raged under the words. “Someday slavery will end.” He closed the book, his expression grim. “And you and I and Adia will have done our share in ending it.”
Chapter Thirty
Kofi had scarcely changed at all in twenty years, apart from a few white hairs mixed with the black. He accepted the appearance of Nikolai and Jean calmly. “I had wondered if I would see you again. I see the time magic still works.”
“Yes, and we still need help,” Nikolai said ruefully. “We have accomplished our mission, and it’s time to unleash the next spell. Can you aid us again?”
The older man nodded. “My daughter has grown into a powerful priestess. Together, we should be enough when joined with your power. Are you ready now?” They had brought their small packs of possessions and wore their nondescript traveling clothes just in case. It took only a few minutes to arrange for the ritual. Kofi’s daughter Mary was a slim girl with skin the color of caramel. Like her father, she glowed with power. She already knew their mission, so explanations were unneeded.
The circle was sealed, Nikolai and Jean held the bead between their palms, the energy was called—and once more they were pulled through time.
Perhaps the process was a little easier. But not much.
They landed in a gray-skied gale. Nikolai gasped as a blast of wind tore at his hat. He captured it with one hand while maintaining his grip on Jean with the other.
“Now, this is jolly,” she said breathlessly. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
He glanced up at wet warehouses. “I smell the sea, so this can’t be London.” He stretched out his perception to learn more about the location. “There is a poisonous feel to this place—as if the devil and his demons are holding a party. Do you feel it?”
Jean’s expression went blank as she turned to inner sight. “This place was built on blood and suffering.”
“It was.” He took her arm and they began to walk toward the water. “My guess is that we’re in one of the west-coast slave ports—Bristol or Liverpool. Probably Liverpool, since it seems more northerly.”
Their street ended at the waterfront. A fresh blast of wind might have knocked Jean over if Nikolai hadn’t been holding her. She clutched at her cloak with her free arm. “More than any other city, Liverpool’s wealth is built on the slave trade.”
“I wonder what our mission is. It sounds as if there is much to be done here.” He turned right and they began walking along the waterfront, Jean tucked under his arm. The few others out in the storm were scudding quickly along the streets, heading for warmth and shelter. None of them looked liked they needed the help of time travelers.
“Good Lord. Could that be Thomas Clarkson?” Jean pointed to a tall, lanky figure who was heading out onto a pier. He must have wanted to watch the storm, since there was no work being done. “He might recognize us, so I suppose we shouldn’t approach him. Unless he’s in danger of being blown off the pier.”
“Do either of us have any magic that could help in such a case? It would be difficult to fish him out of such rough water,” Nikolai observed. He tried to sound unconcerned, but the pervasive dark energy was too intense to ignore. “To me, this city feels like it contains the evil spirits of Africa come to steal men’s souls.”
“Given Liverpool’s history with the slave trade, perhaps their souls have already been taken.”
He nodded, feeling so suffocated by the negative energy that he didn’t want to talk. As they studied the scene, a group of eight or nine men emerged from a shabby tavern, fighting the wind as they stepped onto the waterfront. One of the group pointed out the lone man on the pier and spoke to his companions. It was impossible to hear the words over the wind, but the group turned purposefully onto the pier. They were halfway out when the man at the end turned and saw them approaching.
“It’s Clarkson, all right,” Jean said tensely. “And I think he’s going to need help.”
Nikolai quickened his step as one of the group began yelling at Clarkson. Though the gale winds made it impossible to hear the words, clearly Clarkson was being threatened. In his black clerical clothes, he looked like a scarecrow being attacked by a mob. Two of the men grabbed Clarkson and began dragging him toward the edge of the pier despite his struggles.
“Dear God!” Jean gasped. “He probably can’t swim, and even if he does, these waves might be impossible!” Nikolai broke into a run. All around him he could feel the spirit of evil pulsing with rage and hunger for destruction, and the pressure attacked his breathing. Grimly he kept running. Clarkson managed to fight free and almost broke through the sailors, but he was dragged down again. His attackers began kicking as they shouted insults. “Meddlin’ bastard! Teach ’im to mind ’is own business!”
Protecting his head, Clarkson managed to roll away from the kicks and stagger to his feet, but he was too badly outnumbered to have a chance. He was being dragged toward the water again when Nikolai exploded into the group.
This time he felt no restraint in his attack, using fists and feet and magic to knock out Clarkson’s attackers. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jean arrive. Her image was blurred by some kind of magical shield, and he could feel his gaze sliding away. If not for his own magic, he would never have seen her latch onto Clarkson and haul him to his feet, then guide him away, taking half his weight on her own slim shoulders.
The sailors were fighting back, but their alcohol-fueled rage was no match for Nikolai. He had knocked the last down and was ready to drag the leader to the edge of the pier when a voice in his head cried, “No!” He hesitated as cool clarity rushed through him, countering his hot rage. He had been caught up in the spirit of destruction, he realized. His goals might be different from those of the bullies who had attacked Clarkson, but the rage for destruction had been the same.
He clenched his fists and turned away, shaking. The voice of his ancestors, which sounded just like his grandmother, had pulled him back from the brink. He invoked light to push the dark spirit away as he caught up with Jean and Clarkson. He wrapped an arm around the deacon, taking most of the young man’s weight as they left the pier.
“There’s a tavern on that side street,” Jean said. “He needs time to recover.”
Nikolai nodded and headed in that direction. Clarkson was walking better now, though his pace was still uneven. “I must thank you, sir,” he said a little unsteadily. He blinked owlishly at Nikolai, then turned to Jean. “Why, it’s Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, I believe! Are you my guardian angels?”
Jean laughed. “No, only abolitionists who happened to show up at the right time.” They had reached the tavern, and she opened the door for the two men. The place was shabby but clean, and the few other patrons were quiet and orderly.
After they hung their dripping cloaks on pegs, Nikolai guided Clarkson to a booth while Jean ordered steaming tankards of punch made from hot water, lemon, sugar, and whiskey. As soon as the drinks were delivered, Nikolai took a deep swallow, grateful for the warmth. Next to him, Jean said, “We’ve been mostly away from England since we met you, Mr. Clarkson. What have you done to inspire such fury?”
Clarkson sipped his tankard more slowly, his long fingers clasped around the heated pewter. “I knew I had angered many people here in Liverpool, but I didn’t expect anyone to try to murder me,” he said unsteadily.
